Sharing the Good Life

I spread out my well-worn Hudson Bay point blanket under the broad branches of the coast redwood in the front yard, a tree teeming with birds, the occasional red-shouldered hawk perched on the crown. The sky was hazy and overcast, clouds broken and scattered by bullying gusts of wind, which encouraged everything around me to dance — the trees, the tall and tender new grass, and the wildflowers, whose delicate beauty belied their tenacity. At the top of the mountain, air rushing through the thick boughs of a hundred trees imitated the sound of massive waves, and expelled the scent of the ocean (though nearly an hour west), as it mingled with the spicy sweet fragrance of cypress.

It was really too cool to be outdoors and lying in the open air, shoes off — at least for a Californian. But my roots were in Michigan, and this crisp, moist air felt exactly like end-of-winter melt-off, a cue to throw on some Bermuda shorts and stoke up the charcoal grill. I wanted to soak up every bit of the ocean’s wetted, briny breath, even at the cost of my comfort. I had traveled a long way to live in this place, to imbibe this life-sustaining mist. After all these years, it was familiar and soothing, and the cool of it permeated my soft tissue and settled deep into my bones. I could barely smile, so cold were my cheeks — the muscles numb, my amalgam fillings aching.

Back indoors, I thawed out, dense tingling unfurling from the tips of my ears down to my toes. Stripping down to my underwear, I buried myself deep under my duvet, then drifted off to dreams of the ocean, its primordial perfume lighting up my brain with calming imagery — places known, yet unknown. For a good long while, I lingered in this preconscious state, trying to wake myself so I wouldn’t miss my usual dinner hour. But my head was heavy, and I hadn’t the strength to lift it from my pillow. Then there was a loud thud, so strong it rattled the bookshelf next to my bed. Strong winds had thrown a heavy branch across the side of the house. Now I was awake.

Though it was already 6:00 p.m., I put on a pot of coffee as I had a long evening of work ahead. I sipped my first cup as I warmed up my dinner: matzo ball soup and a slice of toast slathered with butter and honey — my honey. I devoured this concoction as I planned out my setup for the following day’s farmers market and applied labels to jars. The market was held each Tuesday, and the one before Easter was typically the busiest of the year. Ironically, spring was the least productive time for the bees, so I was often short on product this time of year. Every jar of my honey would get sold in two hours, the last hour bringing disappointment to all but those looking for bee pollen and honeycomb.

The winter honey, which I harvested in early spring, was popular for its intense flavor, the dark amber liquid tasting strongly of buckwheat with hints of the redwood and manzanita blossoms near my hives. Though too heavy-handed for high tea, winter honey was perfect on a hot slice of sprouted multigrain or buckwheat waffles. If Northern California had a flavor, this would be it. The chaparral ecosystem on the ranch defined my dark honey.

At 4:00 a.m., I awoke to the sound of barred owls dueting in the redwoods outside my bedroom window, their extended bel canto nudging me to consciousness and bringing a smile to my face. I chugged down a large mug of the cold brew I’d made the night prior, adding a generous pour of half-and-half to soften the acrid flavor resulting from its oxidation. Amped up, I headed down to the storage room, handtruck in tow, to gather my products of the hive: jars of winter honey, as well as star thistle and black sage from the previous fall, stacks of boxed honeycomb, and packets of bee pollen. Then, a few framed recipes and a stack of my cookbooks. All else was permanently packed in my crusty old SUV — tent, tables, cash box, and linens. I loved that vehicle, whose once bright paint was now a matte pear green. Mine was one of those early SUVs, equipped with manual window and seat adjustments, an analog radio, and a rear-mounted spare. It still had spunk, and one might have imagined it capable of conquering rugged terrain. Reality: the vehicle was prone to rollovers, as were all the SUVs of the day.

Off I set for the market, which was held in the vacant parking lot across from the courthouse. I arrived to a flurry of vendors unloading their overflowing crates of veggies and fruit, pantry products, baked goods, yogurt, eggs and butter, and Mediterranean dips. There were always a few vendors with hot food items who had arrived an hour earlier, serving up everything from rotisserie chicken, pupusas, tamales, and breakfast burritos to dim sum, fresh pasta and lasagna, espresso drinks, and fruit smoothies. Within an hour, it was showtime, with hundreds of locals arriving promptly on foot, by bus, bike, and car.

I cued up some Edith Piaf on my mini Bose speaker and took to striking up conversations with passersby. Many were familiar faces. Those who frequented the market were loyal to our farmers and purveyors. They came every week, rain or shine. I had my regulars — folks who stopped by weekly for a jar, apparently enjoying honey on their oatmeal every morning. And there were others who kept a large jar in the pantry for cooking or in the cupboard for tea. Still others packed the larder with my honey for their months of quasi-hibernation. It is known that the cold brings on a seasonal hankering for sweets.

There was one older couple that always caught my attention. Both husband and wife had elegant Parisian accents and were stylishly dressed and coiffed for their weekly strolls through the market. Arm in arm, they would swing by all their favorite booths, mine being one of them, offering a bit of polite conversation, then tasting any current offerings. Closed eyes, puckered lips, and a bit of gentle cooing conveyed the pleasure they derived in trying each new thing. Invariably, at my booth, they purchased large jars of all the honey varietals available on any given week. Lèa Lelouch and Samuel Lelouch were the names on the credit cards — and these regulars were truly honey connoisseurs and by far my best customers. I did wonder, however, how a very-fit-for-their-age couple (in their later 80s - my guess) could consume some 96 ounces of honey each week. It was a lot of calories, and you’d have to be putting it on or in everything — that just seemed impossible. My curiosity on the subject was getting the better of me, so it was decided (in my quorum of one) that this was the week I would put the subject to them. Politely, of course.

That Tuesday, when Lèa and Samuel approached the table, I greeted them cheerfully and struck up a conversation, at first admiring their eye-catching clothing, then marveling at the craftsmanship on Samuel’s multi-blue striped Façonnable button-down shirt. His crisp attire complemented perfectly Lèa’s classic taupe and periwinkle silk linen dress. Both had softly styled hair; Samuel’s was silver and wavy, while Lèa’s thick auburn tresses were pulled back in a loose chignon, offset by trendy Vuarnet sunglasses. The two were a sight — not flamboyant, but their well-considered choices drew attention, especially in a market environment where sweaty folks were coming off a long run or an early morning bike ride in athletic attire, and families with little ones showed up clad in quasi-PJ ensembles. I applauded the effort the Lelouches put in — they were a beautiful and distinguished-looking couple. Their efforts at dressing attractively and staying in shape were surely factors in their enduring relationship. It was clear they revered one another, and as I would soon find out, they had been married 58 years.

Today, the Lelouches brought with them a red Radio Flyer wagon, the old-fashioned kind with wood slat sides. This particular one had seen a few trips around the block. Although some of our market customers brought wagons every week, this was unusual for the Lelouches, as they frankly didn’t seem like the type of people who’d ever had children and therefore would not have had a wagon lying about. That’s not to say they might have been fantastic parents had they had children, but there was something about their demeanor, their fastidiousness, and the methodical way they went about their shopping that led one to believe they’d never experienced the chaos and messiness of parenthood.

And it was these characteristics that pleased everyone with whom they came into contact: their patience, their graciousness, their enthusiasm, and as I would soon learn, their generosity. Even the children at the market were calm and relaxed around Lèa and Samuel, often looking up curiously to see what type of person spoke with this unfamiliar accent. The Lelouches always acknowledged the children, speaking politely to them as if they were peers, inquiring about the things they liked at the booth, and sampling the wares with them.

The Lelouches were a bit exotic to us all. How they had landed here, in our small town in northern California, was a mystery. What had they gone through in their lives? No one really knew. Yet here they were, as much a part of our community as anyone. We saw them at neighborhood restaurants, walking their dog at the downtown park, shopping at the local hardware store, and attending concerts. Based on their ages and accents, it seemed likely they had spent their childhoods in France during World War II. And based on their familiarity with all things local, they had likely spent most or all of their adult lives here. And though dressed as people with means, the Lelouches’ style was subdued, and they showed deep respect toward everyone — the farmers, the artisans, the food purveyors, and the beekeeper (me). They were kind people, through and through.

On that particular Tuesday, the ever-elegant Lelouches arrived at my booth with their rickety old wagon and were especially animated and talkative. Something was in the works. First, they wanted to try all the honey varietals I had in stock, and since there was no one else in line, we took our time sampling everything. Especially intriguing to them was my seasonal honey, which was very dark and viscous. They were very curious to know where the bees had been foraging to make honey of this sort. I took out my phone and walked them through the places on the ranch with hives, pointing out which winter-blooming plants had contributed to the honey’s distinctive flavor. We then worked our way through the star thistle and black sage honeys, with more pictures — a field near the ranch full of star thistle, and my flower garden full of herbs, including the black sage. The tasting was rounded out with my crystal-clear clover honey — perfect for high tea. This honey was the product of the nearly a dozen types of clover that grew on the ranch, and it had a delicate, flowery flavor. As the tasting progressed, and I brought out more unusual varietals, namely blackberry, lavender, and avocado, the Lelouches were transported to another place and time, their experience enhanced, no doubt, by an intense sugar rush. We then shared in some hot Earl Grey tea, and it was decided, by Samuel, that they would purchase all of the honey I had at today’s booth.

This was not a small purchase, mind you, even for a bulk order. I’d brought 48 large jars of my seasonal honey and 336 small jars of assorted varietals. The grand total: $7800! When I suggested taking a moment to calculate a volume discount, Lèa insisted they pay the full price. My expression must have said it all — I was shocked. “What might this be for?” I inquired. Lèa, smiling, said simply, “We enjoy sharing your honey with everyone we know and meet. It’s like giving a little bit of Napa Valley to those we love.” Without hesitation, Samuel pulled out his American Express Platinum card. The deal was done.

After helping the Lelouches to the car with the first batch of honey, we returned to the booth to fill up the wagon a second time. This round, the Lelouches asked me to open all the boxes that contained smaller jars. Once all was situated in their wagon, on they went to their usual shopping. One could see them interacting with the children and parents at each booth, offering jars of honey and warm smiles to all who were using the market’s food assistance tickets. Faces lit up — the honey, a wholesome indulgence that was cost-prohibitive for many, was a welcome surprise, an Easter gift to remember, and from the kind and gracious Jewish couple one always saw about town. Lèa and Samuel took great pleasure in sharing their favorite local honey. They understood that their good fortune and happiness came from being part of this wonderful community. A community with every type of person. Their home.